


Ouroboros

by Anonymous



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: BAMF Harry Potter, F/M, Horcruxes, Jealousy, M/M, Possessive Behavior, Psychopathology & Sociopathy, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Slow To Update, Time Travel, Tom Riddle is His Own Warning, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-29
Updated: 2019-04-29
Packaged: 2020-02-09 23:59:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18648784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: It's hard enough being an orphaned muggleborn attending Hogwarts during Grindleward's rise. Haunted by nightmares of an impossible monstrous future, Harry has to juggle homework, pureblood politics, and dark wizards alike. More dangerous than any of those, however, is the interest of his childhood nemesis whose connection to Harry is stronger and darker than either can begin to imagine.





	Ouroboros

**Author's Note:**

> OK, so dipping my toes in fanfic here. I'm aware that this kind of plot has been done to death in the HP fandom, but I'm a sucker for these kinds of stories and hopefully can put my own spin on these well-worn storylines. Not beta'd so please feel free to inform me of any mistakes, be it with spelling, canon or historical that I may make - although this story won't be sticking strongly (if at all) to Fantastic Beasts' canon and certainly not to Cursed Child's.

Ron is dead.

There are other things to consider of course. The shadowed courtrooms of the Ministry of Magic, where screaming Muggleborns are herded by the hundreds to the waiting embrace of the Dementors while Death Eaters stride freely through the cowed streets of Diagon Alley. The charred ruins of Hogsmeade where serpents of Fiendfyre had streamed through until brick and flesh alike were kindled into a Gryffindor-gold blaze. Hogwarts itself, sitting silent and empty under the sickening glow of the Dark Mark, its corridors thronged with blank-eyed ghosts in bloodstained uniforms. The endless parade of faces - friends, teachers, enemies, strangers - screaming through his dreams at night, until he wakes sweat-soaked and trembling, his enemy’s laughter still echoing through his head.

But in the end, it really comes down to this; _Ron_ is  _d_ _ead_ and a world where that happens is not one Harry’s willing to work with any more.

Hermione agrees. They haven’t spoken of it exactly; there haven’t really been words to say since they stumbled through the door of this ramshackle hut, too drained and cold to speak past the grief that had knotted up their throats. Hermione had dragged him through the doorway, just as she had dragged him from the body, twisting them away from the rain-soaked street as the light bled from Ron’s eyes. It wasn’t until the door closed behind them that she let them stop, that she collapsed into him, raw and ugly sobs wrenching themselves from her chest as they sank down on the dusty floor. They had stayed that way until morning, curled into each other in a haze of grief as the truth of this final, insurmountable loss broke over them.

Then they had pulled themselves apart and started to plan.

Well, if you could call it a plan. A hope might be a better word for it. A wild stab in the dark, a desperate gamble. Something that had seemed so laughable when the three of them had first stumbled across the idea in the Black library, the book tossed haphazardly by Ron into a pile and only rescued by Hermione’s scandalised insistence on not treating such an ancient work so carelessly. Even with the book, it would be unthinkable without the time-turner that Ron had snatched up as they tore through the Ministry what felt like a thousand years ago. Such a small thing to pin their hopes to, but it’s all they’ve got left now.

“Are you sure you want to do this?”

Harry blinks, startled from his contemplation of the scrawled text in front of him. Hermione’s eyes have blue-tinged smudges drawn underneath them, her hair frizzed up into a tangled halo, line furrowed permanently in her brow. But her back’s still straight with purpose, her eyes bright as any hawk’s as she flies through page upon page of obscure enchantments, untangling the skein to lead him down a path trodden by none before. The brightest witch of her age outshines all others, trapped as she is in this musty little cottage behind its layered wards, and this sudden doubt is the first she’s faltered since they started this. It twists in his chest like a betrayal, and his voice is sharper than he intends when he snaps out “We agreed-”

“Yes, but _Harry_."

The anguish in her voice catches him off guard, and she seizes the moment, barrelling further in before he can argue.

“It’s just so phenomenally risky. The spell is fully diagrammed, but it’s all experimental - there’s no confirmation that anyone even attempted this, let alone if they succeeded. I told you before that awful things happen when wizards meddle with time, and we’ve   _seen_ them. Remember that Death Eater in the Department of Mysteries?”

Harry thinks of that bewildered infant’s face blinking at them behind glass and can’t quite suppress a shudder. Hermione grabs his hand, ink-stained fingers curled tight around his own. Behind her, the time-turner they snatched in the Ministry foray lies tangled on a table, the lamplight rippling gold down its links. For some reason, the sight sends a chill skating down his spine.

“It’s not just him, Harry. All the stuff we’ve read about the Department of Mysteries - Madam Mintumble getting spat back in time and aging five centuries, the timeline staying but people vanishing because she spoke to their ancestors - we’ve got no proof that we’ve avoided their mistakes. What if it happens to _you_? You might get thrown to the completely wrong era, get to the past but find that you’ve aged a hundred years-”

“I’ll still be able to use my wand,” Harry murmurs, squeezing her hand back even as her nails bite into the soft flesh of his palms. He can’t deny what she’s saying to him, not when it’s her knowledge and ingenuity that makes the plan even a possibility.

But he’s not going to back down either.

“Even if I’m ancient when I land, I’ll have my magic. If I can do half of what Dumbledore could at his age, I can still stop this whole war in its tracks before it even starts. And that’s exactly the kind of thing the Ministry was avoiding when they tried. They didn’t want to lose anything in their time, they wanted things to stay safe and the same. Well, tell me - what about this time do we want to _keep_? Everyone’s _gone_ , Hermione. There’s no one left to save- ”

His voice catches, ragged with grief and Hermione sucks in a breath. But he’s got to get this out, can’t leave her with the guilt that she might be throwing his life away on the promise of her own brilliance. Not when the weight of a raided safe-house and an Apparition a second too slow has already curled her shoulders inwards and dulled the light in her eyes.

“Hermione, even if this all goes wrong - if I end splattered over Diagon Alley three hundred years in the past - it’ll still be worth it. We can’t hide here forever, they’ll find us eventually. Well, I’m not going to give Riddle the satisfaction. If it goes wrong, at least we tried everything - and it’ll be a hell of a lot better than whatever he’s got in store for us.”

Her hug knocks the breath out him, arms squeezing him tight in place as if Hermione wants to anchor him in the here and now, not flinging him adrift on the wild currents of time. But he thinks she knows exactly what he means, better than he can put into fumbling words. So many times when she and Ron had been woken by his frenzied thrashing in the night, their frantic words and gentle touches never enough to banish the horror choking him. His dreams are so vivid that he wakes up still feeling the cold weight of the holly (yew, not his, it’s yew) wand in his hand, still feeling the sickening joy of watching his friends scream and beg for mercy and knowing that his enemy will be living it all with him. The blinding pain of the scar is nothing compared to the inescapable violation of Voldemort’s presence slithering through his thoughts, the silken murmur of _do you think you can hide forever, Harry?_

No, he doesn’t. But one way or the other, he can snatch the satisfaction of his death clean from Voldemort’s grasp and that - _that_ would be worth anything.

* * *

The spell itself is surprisingly short, their mangled time-turner twisted once and done. For the few short seconds as Hermione’s voice dies away and silence reigns in the room, Harry feels oddly cheated. He turns to her, lowering his wand as he opens his mouth to ask if that was really _all._

And then he realises that Hermione is utterly motionless, her wand still raised mid-air as her mouth is frozen around the last syllable. And the air around her is glittering gold, sparkling into a thick golden haze bleeding into white at the edges, so bright that he can’t see-

And then the world spins into a riot of a colour and sound, a thousand scenes whirling past him in the breadth of a heartbeat. Sprinting through the streets of Diagon Alley, the air freezing in his lungs as Dementors drift by thousands overhead. McGonagall’s face, composed and serene even as it is lit by green light, for Bellatrix and Dolohov lie broken beyond recognition behind her. Ginny shuddering to stillness in his arms. Dumbledore’s funeral, the sky an aching blue as phoenix song trills through the air.

He blinks and still they come, so quickly it seems impossible that he can recognise each so clearly. Neville in the greenhouse, hands blackened with earth as he smiles sheepishly at Harry for knocking over his watering can. _‘I must not tell lies_ ’ gleaming ruby-raw from his wrist. Malfoy scrambling to his feet, hair still mussed from the ferret transfiguration. The Quidditch pitch dropping away from him as he soars through the air, the laughter of his teammates barely audible above the roar of the wind. Sirius, eyes sunken into his waxy face as he glares up from a newspaper stand. The sword of Gryffindor cold and shining in his hands. Squashed onto a common room sofa with Ron and Hermione, still damp from the spray of their bathroom battle, but so flushed with exhilaration that none of it mattered. Hogwarts looming up before him - his home, his true home in a way that Private Drive never will be. Diagon Alley opening up at the tap of a pink umbrella and a whole new life unfolding before him.

 _Yes_ , Harry thinks, _yes_ -

And then his scar blazes open and everything splits into agony. There is a voice hissing, screaming in his head, and the sound of it tears through his entire being, melding into a hundred other cries because now there are new memories blurring before him, familiar and utterly alien. Not Harry a girl cries, and she falls with her arms outstretched as if to still protect the green-eyed child behind her. Dorcas Meadowes spits in his face and even the sight of her corpse, blood and bile spilling from its lips, does not quell his fury. His inner circle bare their arms for his mark, and ten generations of pure breeding does nothing to mask their tremors. His wand flicks up and down, _Avada Kedavra Avada Kedavra_ , and Muggles and blood traitors alike collapse into nothing. The diadem gleams coldly amidst the clutter of the Room, and the sight almost soothes his rage at the old fool’s audacity, to deny him his heritage as the last true blood of the Founders’. Striding through the chamber, water lapping at his heels and destiny slumbering ahead in its den of stone. Hogwarts shining ahead, golden and beautiful, and his breath catches in wonder.

Then the orphanage looms up before him, grey and cold, and he is nothing there, an insignificant waif amongst hundreds. In the dark, he huddles into the scratchy sheets, knowing that he is greater than this, than all of them, but there are none there who are like him, none who could ever understand-

And then the world goes dark and Harry Potter knows no more.

* * *

 

The sunset is already casting its red glow across the rooftops as Martha steps out through the door, gulping in the sooty air with an almost guilty sense of relief. The sky is dark and heavy with the promise of rain, but the promise of a free day tomorrow - and not a blessed child in sight - is enough to make everything bright. She almost floats down the steps, thinking dreamily of the prospect, and her thoughts are so full of her bed that the little noise almost slips her notice.

She pauses halfway down the steps, squinting into the shadows. “Anyone there?”

The sound comes again, almost like a kitten mewing, but Martha’s rocked more bairns than she’s had hot suppers and she already knows what she’ll find in the little bundle she sees at the foot of the steps.

It’s still a shock when she shifts apart the pile of clothes to find a shivering little boy, blinking up at her under a dark mop of hair. Uttering a soft exclamation, she drops on one knee to gather him into her arms, trying to shield him from the night’s chill. A quick look down the street shows no sign of anyone who might have left him.

 _'They’ll have taken themselves off quick, and no wonder!_ ’ she fumes to herself. ‘ _What kind of lout leaves a child out in this cold?’_

The little lad can give her no answer, even when she bundles him inside to show the other staff. Miss Cole reckons that he’s about a year, give or take, but there’s not much more to learn about him. Even the clothes piled around him can give them no clue; there’s no name marked on the strange material that falls apart in their hands like a tangle of cobwebs.

Martha scrubs him herself under the tap, dragging the bristles of her brush over his scalp again and again to assure herself that there’s no lice, and it’s then that she sees the scar cutting through his forehead. He wails when she traces a finger over it and she whips her hand away, almost contrite under his tearful green gaze. Not the worst she’s seen on a child, not by a long shot - but perhaps it’s the best thing Harry’s family ever did for him in his short little life, to drop him on the steps of an orphanage and take themselves off to where only God can find them.

(she’ll never know where the notion of his first name came from, even as she enters it in the ledger with Wool for a foundling’s surname. There’s a strange certainty to the name, as if some unseen fairy gripped the pen and scrawled it over his face instead. But it’s their right to name the urchins that are plopped so carelessly at their door, and it fits him so well that none of the other staff ever question it).

She ought to have been off long ago, but Martha likes to settle the little ones down herself, and she takes him to the narrow room where the youngest lot are put to sleep every night. Harry’s head lolls against her shoulder, exhausted by even that small fit of crying, and he barely stirs as she lowers him behind the bars of the crib.

As she does so, she feels a strange chill, as if there’s some great beast towering up behind her. She spins around in a fright, but there’s no one there. There’s just little Tommy Riddle, lying awake in the crib opposite Harry’s with those dark eyes fixed on her.

She exhales, putting a hand to her chest. He doesn’t cry, Tommy - well, he never does. Just lies there staring up at her, and she turns on her heel, tucking an old starched blanket around Harry with that old disquiet settling over her.

She can never put her finger on exactly what it is about that child that unsettles her so, that makes it feel like she’s fussing over a cold statue instead of a sweet infant. She’s cared for many children since her time here, but there’s none that seem to respond so little to any human contact, none that seem to be completely indifferent to any display of care. Just lies there and stares, like a fairy changeling from the stories her ma used to tell her.

Why, she thinks, as she straightens up from the crib, you only had to look at this new child to see that there was something not quite right with the Riddle boy. They even looked a fair bit like one another, with that black hair and pale skin, but no one who had ever held Tommy would mistake the two of them. You’d never catch Tommy clinging to an adult or wailing in pain. No, Harry’s a different bairn altogether - and thank the heavens for it.

To have two like Tom Riddle growing up in a place like this - why that just didn’t bear thinking about.

**Author's Note:**

> So there's the first chapter out of the way. I would love to read any feedback you might have; what you liked, what you didn't - I'm all ears (eyes?). Until next time!


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